Samantha
by watercrystals
Summary: A six-year-old witness has a strong impact on Ziva. The case leaves the former Mossad Officer pondering her own future and how the little girl, Samantha, is now a part of it. AU. Post season 7. Tiva.
1. Different

**Author's Notes:** _Generally my chapters will be longer than this but it's just the first/set-up chapter. I have never done a fanfiction like this before in the sense that I am telling it from Ziva's point of view (POV). I really hope I did her justice. I was trying to get inside her mind and tell the first chapter as she would. I plan to write my whole fic like this, though not just from Ziva's as some chapters will focus on other characters as well. This does mean you'll be limited to that character's knowledge and perception, so please let me know your thoughts on this. But as I said, most of the chapters are by Ziva anyhow._  
><em>So, this fic is a Tiva (TonyZiva pairing), even though from "hearing" Ziva's thoughts it may not seem so. She's in denial ;). Remember that this is AU (author's universe) and set at least after season 7, but not any specific time. There is also a link to the banner for this fic, found in my profile. Anyway, enough from me and onwards with the first chapter!_

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><p>It was a crime scene; another crime scene. There was nothing special about this one either. They all had dead bodies, blood, evidence, and witnesses to interview that are often annoying, plus I have to put up with Tony's jokes, and taking all the photos. Yes, I am a criminal investigator, but after a while a crime scene is just a crime scene. I miss the thrill sometimes. I was a Mossad Officer, still am in a way. It's like how Gibbs was a marine and does not believe there is such a thing as a former marine. I do not believe there is such a thing as a former Mossad Officer. Not when the instincts are still there and it is in my blood to be who I am. I was a killer and now I catch killers. Ironic, yes?<p>

So, where was I? Ah yes, the crime scene. It was a sailor this time, though he wasn't in uniform. Dead, as expected, and lying in a puddle on the floor of a living room that once had a wonderfully stain-free carpet. The pictures on the walls indicated he was married, yet the state of his house did not. I would certainly not marry such a slob like him.

Tony is saying something, but I am not listening - it's probably just about another movie he saw. It's always about some stupid movie. Tim is complaining, not about Tony because we're all used to that, but about the amount of things lying around in the house that we need to take photos of and place into evidence bags. Tony joins him while I do not say a word. In Mossad such complaints would get you a bullet in your head, if you're lucky. It is our job and we have been given orders to do it, just like we always have. Americans will never understand that because their lives are not placed in danger every day like it is in Israel. Or at least where I came from as a Mossad Officer.

Good, Gibbs is here. He had been interviewing the witness and I am glad he did because had I been chosen I would be tempted to complain also. She looked like a very annoying woman, even from a distance. He shut the boys up with a single stare and told us the woman claimed to have found the body and that her reason for being in the house was because she owned it. She was not the victim's wife and I could tell she was lying. Gibbs could too. I enjoy working for Gibbs because he reminds me of the old ways of my life; the Mossad days when things are to be taken seriously and given proper perception. Tony and McGee do not understand, as they have not suffered and lost as Gibbs and I have.

'You still with us, Ziva?' Tony asked with his usual smirk that meant he was trying to annoy me.

It worked.

'I am still standing here, aren't I?' I replied.

I was not in the mood for jokes or facts about whatever the body had reminded Ducky of. It was my mother's birthday two days ago. I did not remember until this morning. My mother is dead and has been for a long time, but I still think of her often and try to remember the woman she was and yet never really knew. I had let the date slip by for two days before I noticed. Two days! I had been amused by Tony's latest prank on McGee and a boyfriend Abby had been talking about...I was distracted.

I have been in America too long.

I do not wish to return home, nor to re-join Mossad; it was my old life and I have moved on. But I also do not like my new one. No, scratch that...I love it, yet at the same time, I do not know. Two days ago it was just another day at NCIS where my friends were being themselves. Today it is different. This morning I realised how far my old life was slipping away.

And I was changing too.

I do not know yet if it is good or bad, but I do not like it. Perhaps it really is the fact about my mother. I miss her, yes, but lately I have been thinking more about her than I have Tali or Ari. I lost them too and I also miss them terribly. They are my family. My mother I hardly knew and even so, I forgot her birthday for two days. She is dead so I doubt she would care for such a silly tradition of lighting a candle and watching it fade each year. Fade, like she had. It mattered to me, though I cannot figure out why so much this year. Was it because I had become distracted and forgotten or was it something else I am yet to figure out?

'Something on your mind, David?' Gibbs asked as he stood in front of me.

I realised I have been holding the camera, ready to use it, yet was doing nothing other than staring into space.

'Sorry, Gibbs.' I say.

I am not sorry to him, but to myself, my mother, and Israel. I never get distracted from anything. In Mossad a distraction is the difference between life and death. I am an NCIS Agent in America. There is no such thing as a former Mossad Officer. I was distracted, but why?

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><p>Tony was right; the wife was the killer.<p>

A week later and the case was closed. I still could not erase from my mind the failure I felt when I had become too distracted to notice my mother's birthday until two days after the date. It should not still bother me, but it did. I do not like the parts of myself that I cannot understand or control.

'You've been quiet this week, Ziva.'

I look over at Tony, who is seated at his desk with a pile of paperwork he was probably trying to avoid. It was night and we're the only ones left in the office. I did not answer him, simply because I knew it would annoy him. And I have nothing to say that is worth mentioning, other than to agree with him. Tony left his desk and approached mine.

I knew he would.

'Something bothering you?'

I lifted my gaze from the line I was supposed to be signing my name upon and stared at him. I should have told him "yes" but then he would only ask more questions. If I did not answer those, Tony would become curious and concerned, therefore annoying me further by prying.

'Not really.' I shrugged as though it was nothing.

It should be nothing.

'I have not had much to say.'

He doesn't buy it and I didn't expect him to. Yet Tony returned to his desk, even if he was trying to be discreet about watching me. I used to find it irritating, but now it's actually rather useful. When I know someone is watching me, I can better compose myself and remain under control. Things are always worse when I am alone, though it hardly matters when no one is around to see it.

Tony is different from the others.

If our jobs, office, and lives were a part of some silly Television show, I am certain the viewers would accuse me of loving Tony. It was nothing like that, as we were not a couple nor did I ever wish for it to become such a commitment. If I was questioned about it during a Polygraph test, I would pass. Well, I would pass regardless, but that is besides the point! Tony was just my partner, friend, and co-worker. I found it completely irrelevant how I saw him differently simply because his breath was warmer, touch safer, and eyes kinder.

I may consider Tony my soul mate but that does not mean I am required to love him.

I finished my paperwork, said goodnight to Tony, and left the NCIS building to head home for the night. I would be back tomorrow and it would all be the same. As I got into my car, I realised another mistake I had made. To assume the next day will be no different is also a lowering of my guard. I should always expect something to be different and constantly be on alert for the unexpected. I cursed America as I drove home, because I indeed have been here far too long. I wouldn't change it though.

America and NCIS, it is home now.

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><p>I do not require devices such as an alarm clock to tell me when I should be awake. However, I always set it anyway. The next day began as any other and once again my alarm clock was beaten. No, I did not shoot it. I was dressed by the time it made that annoying noise it does, as it is supposed to by whichever idiot created it and assumed it is the first sound people wish to hear when they're rudely awoken in the morning.<p>

My routine of dressing, having cereal with juice, cleaning my weapons, going for a run, showering, dressing for work, and driving to NCIS was no different than any other day. Yet I was early. Gibbs was not even there. It does not usually bother me as it had happened before, but I knew something felt out of place. I should be on alert for something, but I could not begin to figure out what or where it would be coming from. Something bad or big was going to happen today. I was on edge because of this, therefore until the others arrive I shall check my emails and then clean my weapons again. _"You cannot be too careful, Ziva"_, papa always said.

I was three when he first told me that, and even then I knew to believe him.

And by 0930 we had a case.

It was in Maryland and Tony was driving, rambling about yet another stupid movie. I tune out his and McGee's voices as my focus remained on the roads and cars around us. Nothing was suspicious and everyone seemed harmless enough, to me anyhow. Yet the feeling of unease remained. And it was not until we arrived at the crime scene that I realised, finally, what it was that has been bugging me.

The victims are dead on their living room floor in large pools of blood. Marine Sergeant Gordon Miles and his wife Stacy, according to the fingerprint scan McGee just did. I was the first to notice her. The six-year-old beautiful girl in the only family portrait on the mantel of the fireplace. I held the small, fragile frame in my hands while the others talked and waited for Ducky. She really is beautiful. Not perfect, but the image of innocence and joy, yet I can see the look in her eyes. This was a posed photograph. Her golden brown hair, bright blue eyes, and pink attire was the very picture of a sweet little girl with her mother and father on either side behind her.

It was flawed.

It was a Saturday. This family had lived in the house on the Marine Base for mere months, therefore it was unlikely the girl was with neighbours. Being a weekend, she was also not at school.

I could feel it; she was here with us, alive.

I placed the picture back on the mantel, a little behind the others of Gordon Miles in uniform. I did not know why. Perhaps because I wanted to be the one to find her, as though I knew that if I alone was searching then she would be found. I trust the others and I know they could find her too. It was my instincts that told me to look alone, not my heart or head.

And I have never ignored my instincts, apart from once or twice, and I was not about to.

As a not-so-former Mossad Officer, I am an expert of discreet and cautious. Not even Gibbs suspected I was searching for anything beyond the usual clues. They did not know there was a child here. I could feel it and they could not, yet the house did not reflect it either with none of her toys in sight or photographs of the family. Tony commented on that, the lack of family photos, but I was much further ahead of their conversation.

There was a set of stairs. The girl was close, I knew it, yet without going up those stairs I was unable to see where she could be. The mother, Stacy, was lying closer to the side of the stairs with the blood spray over the side of the wall from the bullet she had received in her skull. I stare at the blood and noticed that while it dripped down the side of the stairs wall, there was an odd pattern. A crack. The blood dripped everywhere but a vertical lined section. A secret door. With the pale wallpaper it would be very hard to notice and even I almost missed it.

It was there and I knew the girl was too.

I could feel the team watching me as I bent to extract the knife from my ankle. It extended with a familiar _"snap!"_. I placed the tip into the crack and used the pressure of the knife to wedge the crack open wide enough for my fingers to slip inside to replace the blade. Not even half a minute later, a door was revealed as I pulled it open. Inside was dark and cluttered with what I would label as "junk". I could hear heavy breathing, sniffling, and fear. I could almost smell the terror of a young child inside that tiny, darkened, junk-filled space.

'Do not be afraid.' I said without moving. 'I will not harm you, Samantha.'

I knew that was her name because it was written in pink words on a silver bracelet she wore in the only complete family photograph in that fragile, brown frame on the mantel.

A flash of movement was sighted, but I did not react like Tony and McGee did by jumping back with surprise (who had been standing on either side of me), because I knew it was just the girl. She had rushed forward with messy hair and a tear-streaked face. I was prepared to stop her from running passed me to flee. I was not expecting her to run at me and wrap her small arms around my middle and press her sad, scared face to my stomach. At that moment, as I placed a briefly comforting hand on the back of her head, I was no longer a Mossad Officer. I was not even an NCIS Special Agent. Israeli or American did not matter.

I was her rescuer and that was all.

'How'd you know?' Tony was surprised.

Even after all these years they still have not learned to assume that I will always surprise them. I pointed to the fireplace where the picture was. Gibbs went to it and the rest made sense to them; the clues I had noticed and realisations I had made. I could see their sadness when they looked at the sobbing girl and the amazement in their eyes as they glanced at me. I accepted that I cannot make them understand. A Mossad Officer would. Gibbs does. Observation is everything and sometimes words are wasted breath, effort, and time.

A paramedic is called and soon arrived.

I shielded the girl's face from the bodies of her parents the best I could, but it was useless to try and move her. Her fear and relief combined had caused her to hesitate and become unyielding in movement, no doubt preparing to remain still and ignore the world away. I picked her up instead as it was the only way to get her outside. Gibbs followed, acting as a sight barrier between the girl's sad blue eyes and the bloody redness of the family she no longer had.

The paramedic said she was unharmed, but in shock. I did not resist rolling my eyes at such an obvious statement. We called him to the scene to hear what was so painfully clear? Wasted resources, I believed.

'Stay with her.' Was the order I received from Gibbs.

As an NCIS Special Agent I opened my mouth to show my objection and dislike, but as the Mossad Officer I did not say a single word. The girl was watching me with those haunted blue eyes resting above the liquid trails of her turmoil. Six-years-old. I was certain of her age, though I had no evidence to confirm it. She was too young to be a witness if only because it is not right. In Israel it would not be considered such, but in America is it labelled as wrong. And it is wrong, wherever a person lives, for a child to see the true darkness of the world at the age of six.

'How...' Samantha bravely tried to speak.

I admired that about her and paid tribute to her courage by giving her my entire attention. Well, as much as I can, being a Mossad Officer and all.

'How did you know where I was?' An innocent enough question, yet how could I explain to her that I was trained as a killer from a war-ridden country where observation and fast reactions were essential? I do not like to lie, but it is a skill in my blood and training that presented no difficulty on my behalf.

'I heard you.' I told her.

Six-years-old she is, and yet she does not believe me. It was the first sign I received since the first glimpse of the single family portrait that this girl was not a typical American child. She was exactly that in every way but her eyes. Those blue orbs had a penetrating quality, a secretive glimpse, and a powerful sense of suspicion. I had seen it before on another six-year-old girl. She once stared back at me in my own mirror.

However, unlike my younger self, Samantha did not call me out on the lie and simply nodded her head like the sweet little girl she was. I did not suspect her of being any less innocent or kind than she looked. I just knew her life had darkness too, even before this day when her parents had been murdered feet from where she had been hiding.

'They're dead, aren't they?' Her soft voice did not have the unemotional value to it that mine would have.

She was miserably sad, scared, and confused, but her courage reached her voice and her eyes appeared to have used their last supply of tears. She felt pain and feared it, but this girl was no stranger to the emotional variation of it.

'Yes.' I did not see any reason to lie. It was the truth; they were dead and nothing was going to change that.

'I heard it.' Her tone was so low it took more of my focus to hear it without leaning closer. 'The man...they were crying...and the guns...'

And then she lost it.

Fresh tears emerged and her controlled expression crumbled. She was sitting on the edge of the paramedic truck, her feet once swinging freely in the air between the truck and the dirt ground. I was beside her, until that moment when she flung herself at me for the second time.

Once again only a rescuer, a source of comfort, and someone who is there for her simply by being there. I embraced her because I knew it was what she needed. I let her believe the natural body temperature of another human being was actually the warmth of safety and comfort. I did nothing to correct her assumptions that by crying until she cannot any longer would make her stronger and calmer. She thought my company and compliance is everything at that moment, when really I was not doing anything other than holding her and allowing her sadness to take over her mind and body.

She was not a Mossad Officer in training. Samantha Miles was a scared, crying little girl who had lost her parents in an act of unnecessary violence. I was doing my job and being sympathetic. Until her small hand reached to touch my hair. Another longing for safety and to ensure I was real, alive, and safe. Those fingers barely touching a few strands of my hair caused my rationalising mind to halt and yet I did not pull away. Tali used to do that. It comforted her after nightmares or loneliness.

Deluded into believing her crying to be the cause, Samantha moved back as though she was stronger and calmer than she had been a minute earlier. My initial reaction to her touching my hair was not shown on my face as I did not reveal it even to a six-year-old victim.

No, correction: witness.

'What's your name?' She sniffed and was clearly looking for a distraction. Samantha was more aware of her surroundings and the situation now.

'Ziva David.' I answered her. 'I am with NCIS.'

She did not ask me what "NCIS" was and neither did I tell her.

Silence followed as she stared into the distance, our minds wandered and centered on memories. Gibbs joined us and I was told to take the girl back to NCIS. The others would join us soon. I nodded and moved to pick up the girl as I had before. She jumped down from the truck instead and reached for my hand, allowing me to lead her to the car Gibbs had arrived in. Samantha preferred the back seat and therefore that is where she sat. I chose not to drive at my usual speed and ignored the part of my mind that focused on Tony's comments and jokes about my driving, or as he once said: "lack thereof".

The office where I worked at NCIS was quiet.

I mean, there were people walking around talking and working, but there was an atmospheric silence about it to me. A cloud of importance and seriousness that could not be penetrated as I led Samantha to Tony's desk. She sat in the chair and a ghost of a smile appeared on her face as she moved and realised the chair turned with her. The girl's pink and white shoes could not touch the floor and her hands gripped the armrests as she watched the floor move with her own actions.

The girl seated several feet away from me was no different than the one in the photograph. Still posed and yet the innocence and kindness were true. She did not have her parents on either side of her any longer. At that moment she had not a Mossad Officer or an NCIS Special Agent, but a rescuer.

At the border of her nightmarish experience, Samantha only had me.

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><p><span>Author's Notes:<span> **Please review and share your thoughts, comments and/or questions. I'd love to hear from you!**


	2. The Six-Year-Old Witness

**Author's Note:** I know I said the chapters would be longer, but it'll be a bit more gradual as I am still planning where this story is going at this point. There is also a special banner I made for this OC character, which will show you EXACTLY what Samantha looks like. **Note that while the image is accurate for the overall character...at this point of the story she is paler and her hair much lighter/actual blonde. Reasons for the change will be explained later on**. Please review and share your thoughts of the image and the chapter. The link to the image can be found in my profile.

Also, I apologise for the delay of this chapter. I had some things to work out, but the updates will be more regular now.

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><p>When I escorted Ari's body back home to Tel Aviv, I wish I could have lost myself to the world like Samantha has.<p>

Then, I had too much on my mind with my own fears, self-doubt, and heartbreak, and yet at the same time I could think of nothing at all. I was worried how my father would react, not just for the obvious reasons, but also because deep down I worried if he could still feel as I could. He is a decent man, I know, yet as a father he is unrecognisable to me. I am sure Ari felt the same way. My brother had done terrible things, yes, but he was still my family and I had taken his life.

I have lost my mother, my little sister, my older brother, and perhaps even my own father in his own way. I'm not alone, though, as I have my friends at NCIS. My new family.

Samantha had no one left at all, only a rescuer. Being six-years-old, she did not bury her face to hide her emotions as I had. Samantha swirled around in Tony's chair and that action was all her focus rested on; not her parents, who had been killed a few hours ago while she'd hidden in terror and grief. She didn't smile, because Samantha wasn't happy, but the girl could see beyond reality for a while.

At her age, I had never been able to do that. At six, I was learning to be a big sister, and dreaming of saving the world. The simple spinning of a chair would have held no amusement or interest to me, at any age, but to Samantha, for a little while it was her whole world.

I knew I should probably ask her if she needed anything in case the girl was hungry or thirsty, as she'd been through quite an ordeal for her age. I could not force myself to interrupt her moment and fracture the defensive peace the six-year-old has formed around herself, as she continued to move Tony's chair to her will.

My efforts to preserve her created peace were in vain, as Gibbs strode into the bullpen with Tony and McGee behind him.

In an instant, the chair at Tony's desk halted and a wide-eyed little girl look up with anxiety in her gaze. I know very little about Samantha beyond what I can see, so I am unsure as to how she would react to certain situations, such as being in her own state of mind for hours and then abruptly having company. She looked around, as though realising where she was and what had happened, and jumped off the chair.

She ran around the desk and reached my side with impressive speed.

Everyone stopped moving, as the scared child reached towards me with nervously shaking, small hands. Samantha stared into my eyes with her piercing blue ones, obviously fearing my reaction or rejection to her desire for comfort and reassurance. I allowed her the sentiment, and lifted her onto my lap. She sat there, breathing heavily but quietly, as I looked over at Gibbs. I wanted to know if they'd found any clues as to who had caused this awful situation for the little girl, and if they had any idea what was going to happen to her now. Of course, Gibbs would not share those details with me while Samantha was sitting right there. And I realised my mistake, not in the expectations, but in the fact I was more concerned about Samantha than I was for the case. It was unprofessional. All I could picture were those bright, fearful eyes staring back at me from Samantha's beautiful young face.

How could anyone ever seek to hurt her?

'Samantha, are you thirsty or hungry?' I whispered through her hair and against her ear, unable to see her face as she stayed seated on my lap.

I wrapped an arm gently around her middle to keep her steady, though I wasn't worried she was about to fall off. She was only six, though tall for her age and not as light as one may assume. I wanted to keep her close, to promise with my actions rather than words that she was safe in my arms. I don't know why it was important, at that exact moment, but it mattered to me and I know somehow it also mattered to Samantha.

She nodded her head at my question, but did not speak.

I began to worry she had succumbed to silence, as the likely traumatised little girl had not said a word since we'd left the crime scene. I lifted her from my lap and placed her on the ground, letting her grip my hand with her smaller one so I could lead her to the water cooler nearby. I checked my watch along the way, and noticed it was around lunchtime. Turning, while Samantha drank her offered water, I looked across at Gibbs and saw he was watching us. McGee and Tony were talking to him, each with a file in their hands, and I knew I was missing out on information regarding the case.

Once again, my attention and concern fell only to our witness.

'Thank you, Ziva.' Samantha said to me when I accepted the empty cup from her.

She watched me carefully as I nodded and offered her a smile. I withheld any sympathy I felt and tried to appear only friendly or reassuring, and apparently I had succeeded because she seemed calmer as we walked back to my desk. And she had spoken, so that was a good sign.

'Samantha is hungry.' I said to Gibbs. 'Perhaps I could get her something to eat?'

'No, you're staying here.' Gibbs said without consideration.

I stared back at him and was not pleased to have my request rejected, until something in his gaze spoke volumes to me.

Samantha was still in danger.

Gibbs would probably be the one to go and get her something to eat, but he entrusted the girl's safety to me. Probably because I was a woman, or the one she viewed as her rescuer. Or both. It was assumed she may be more likely to trust me than anyone else, which was understandable, but I felt pressured because of it. Her safety was my responsibility from the moment Gibbs ordered me to stay behind with Samantha, and the outcome of the case may also rest on my shoulders. I was extremely effective in obtaining any information I needed from anyone, except a small child.

I had to be careful and sensitive if we were going to find out what Samantha knew about who had killed her parents.

I overheard Tony saying there were no other relatives to take her in, and I was not surprised. I had guessed as much already. I glanced at the girl, who was sitting alone at my desk to stare at the floor. I wondered what she was thinking, and at the same time I didn't want to know. The chair did not move and her eyes were filled with sadness. She was only six-years-old, and she was also a witness. Samantha knew things she shouldn't at her age, and yet she did. She might even know who the murderer was and his/her intentions, which was essential to our case and the eventual capture of those responsible.

Life was cruel and unfair sometimes.

I focused on the bag McGee had just left near the edge of my desk. He said it was some of Samantha's belongings she might need, such as clothes and toys. I peered inside it and for an undetermined reason, it was then that I realised Samantha was an orphan. The contents were all she had left; materialistic items of practical use, but which would never bring her the comfort and love a family could. Her mother and father were gone, and no pink shirt with flowers on the front or leather-bound storybook was going to fill the void she probably felt inside her; the loss and abandonment associated with being alone in the world after such a tragic event.

There was something inside her bag that caught my attention. I lifted out the soft shoes and smiled, though it was a sad one, and brushed the pink material with my fingers.

'You dance?' I asked her, looking over at the child who was staring intently at the ballerina shoes in my hands.

She nodded, and tore her gaze from the items as though staring at them for too long would burn her eyes. I quickly returned them to the bag, wondering if her memories of dancing were better or worse than my own.

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><p>While Samantha sat at my desk with the burger and chips Gibbs had brought back for her, and sipped the bottle of apple juice I had given her, I rejoined the rest of the team across the bullpen. We spoke on low volumes, even if it didn't appear as though Samantha had any interest at all in what we were saying or doing.<p>

'It had to be someone they knew.' Tony said. 'There were no signs of forced entry.'

As the information was shared between us, though I had very little to offer as I had only been watching Samantha most of the time, we decided there were four main suspects who were likely to either know something about what happened, or had been involved. I felt a bit left out and useless, because while I had been thinking to myself and watching Samantha, Gibbs had been interviewing neighbours, McGee had pulled phone records, and Tony did background checks on both of the victims.

My main contribution to the case would likely be the witness report of the events, in which I had not even tried to get yet. I didn't want to put Samantha through it again, unless it was absolutely necessary. I noticed the way Gibbs glanced over at her, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing.

'Do you think she knows anything?' Tony asked as he followed our gazes towards Samantha.

'Yes.' I answered automatically. 'She knew her parents had been killed. She told me she heard it.' I reported, thinking back to what Samantha had told me when she'd been sitting in the back of the paramedic truck before she'd begun to cry.

'There was a man. Her parents were crying. And there were guns.' I added. 'That is all she has told me. Not that I am surprised, with what she had been through. I do not think she will tell us much today. She needs time, which we do not have.' I sighed and looked back to Gibbs. 'If I may, I think we should let her rest. I will talk to her tomorrow. She is only six-years-old, I think it would be a mistake to push her.'

'Yeah.' Gibbs exhaled in agreement.

Clearly he wanted to solve the case and catch the monster who had upset the small child and stolen her parents from her, but her age and the trauma she has been through had to be taken into consideration.

'She is under protective custody, yes?' I stared at Gibbs, showing in my expression that I strongly believed she should be. It was clear to me that either the killers had not been able to find her, yet had intended to kill her as well, or they'd left her alive for a very specific reason. And she was our only witness.

'Right now she is under protective custody.' Gibbs nodded. 'Yours.'

I showed surprise and reluctance, whereas inside I was relieved and had expected a similar response. Gibbs often protected the children NCIS often came across, which I am sure stems from the loss of his own child, but it was clear Samantha trusted only me at this point.

I was her saviour.

It was decided I would take her home, as there was little reason for her to sit around at NCIS for the rest of the day, and I was of little use during that time otherwise. I grabbed my bag and Samantha's, making sure to spare my left hand for her to hold. She slid off my chair when I told her we were going to stay at my place.

She looked unsure and hesitant, but trusted I wasn't going to hurt her or lead her somewhere bad.

We walked into the elevator and she stood stiffly by my side. She was scared, yet trying to be brave. I admired her strength and courage, and gave her hand a light squeeze for reassurance. She looked up at me with wonder, until the elevator dinged and the doors opened.

We walked to the car and I placed her bags in the back-seat after Samantha hurried to the passenger side of the car. She buckled her seatbelt beside me, while I started the engine and decided not to frighten her by driving at my usual speed. She wasn't quite tall enough to see entirely out the window, therefore likely saw more sky than traffic from where she sat. Even so, she didn't seem to mind and remained as quiet as ever.

We arrived at my apartment and got out. I led her to my room and placed the bags on the couch. She unlatched her hand from mine to wander around the living room with curiosity, looking carefully at everything she passed or noticed. While she did this, I extracted papers from the pocket of my jacket and examined them. McGee had printed out Samantha's daily schedule when I'd asked him to shortly after it had been mentioned. I wanted to know more about her and the way she'd lived. Tony had commented about how loved Samantha must have been, if her parents weren't rich but spent a lot of time, effort, and money on ensuring their daughter had the best educated and opportunities.

As I perused the schedule, I had an unsettling feeling in my stomach. Tony was wrong.

Samantha attended dance lessons, musical lessons, crafting activities, educational clubs, neighbour events, and after-school training. It broke my heart to see, that with all the time she spent away from home, Samantha probably only saw her parents at night. I could tell right away, from the times Mrs Miles had listed pick-up and drop-off times that Samantha's education and recreation wasn't about skills or learning. It was a way to occupy her time away from home. Otherwise, surely a doting mother who rarely saw her child would have specifically arranged to stay and watch some of those dance lessons or socialised at the backyard barbecues?

No, I could see the truth the others had once again overlooked.

Stacy Miles did not work, nor did she have any major functions or duties to focus on apart from the responsibility of being a parent. She barely got to see her only child...on purpose.

Looking over at Samantha, who was tracing the lace of my green toned curtains, I felt even sadder for the child. She had witnessed the murder of two people who should have loved and cared for her, for every moment they had with their only daughter. They had taken her for granted, and now she was the one left behind.

'Samantha?' I brought her attention back to myself. 'You're safe here. I will make sure of it.'

'How long am I going to stay here?' Samantha asked.

I had trouble reading her expression, which did not usually happen to me, as she asked her question. I couldn't tell if she dreaded the stay and wanted to go somewhere else, perhaps somewhere more familiar, or if she was content with the arrangement for now and accepted it.

'I do not know.' I told the truth. 'At least until we can find out what happened today.'

'You mean find who killed my mother and father?'

'Yes.' I narrowed my eyes discreetly at the titles she had chosen for her parents. As far as I was aware, most six-year-olds used terms like "mummy" and "daddy".

But not Samantha Miles.

'You have a nice place, Ziva.' Samantha tried to smile, and I could tell it was forced.

'Thank you.' I offered her a more natural smile in return. 'How about we get you settled in the guest room?'

I led her to the second room, which was small and very basically furnished with a set of draws for her clothes, a soft crème rug on the floor, a bedside table with a pale lamp sitting atop it, and a single bed with blue and white sheets.

While I put away her clothes, Samantha headed into a corner and sat down with a scrapbook and a box of coloured pencils she'd gotten from her bag. She never said a word, as she tried to work out what to draw. I watched her for a moment, wondering if the girl liked drawing or was simply occupying her time on her own, as she had clearly been raised to do.

'I will be the other room.' I told her. 'You are welcome to join me, if you want to.'

Samantha looked up quickly, her blue eyes wide with surprise, and she jumped up from the floor without hesitation. She followed me back to the living room and to the couch, where I sat down and reached for a nearby book to read. I didn't have a television, as it had recently been broken and I had no motivation to purchase a new one yet. I mostly spend my free time at home reading, and wasn't sure what to do now I had a child in my care for the day.

Luckily, Samantha was content to sit beside me with a stuffed rabbit on her lap. I had my book open, but was unable to read, as I listened intently to what Samantha whispered into the fluffy ears of her beloved toy.

'Father is gone now, Hops.' Samantha said, which I could only just overhear. 'He's dead. Mother too. It was really scary, but we have Ziva now. She's nice and she saved me.'

With her willingness to talk about the incident, I decided to take a chance and turned to face her. She stopped talking and stared at me, watching and waiting to see what I was going to do.

'Samantha...' I wasn't sure what to say at first, so I decided to be simple and straight to the point. 'Could you tell me what you saw? Or heard?'

She gripped her rabbit close to her chest and shook her head adamantly. Her blue eyes stared back at me, unwavering, and not as reluctant as her posture. She wanted to tell me everything she knew. Samantha longed to trust me and let go of the horrible secret, but she was too terrified. She knew, deep down, that there were things her saviour could not rescue her from.

'They cannot hurt you anymore.' I tried to make her feel safe, to encourage further trust so she might tell me something, anything, we could use. 'I promise, Samantha. You can tell me the truth.'

Samantha said nothing, and didn't even shake her head again, as she lunged forward and threw herself onto my lap. Her rabbit fell to the floor near my feet as she wrapped her arms around my middle and cried against my shoulder. It broke my heart to hear her sobs, more than it had impacted me before, because she really wanted to be brave. The six-year-old girl was trying desperately to be strong, but was too frightened and upset by what had happened to her.

And every time, she turned to me. With each time, I felt less professional and less of a Mossad Officer or NCIS Agent than I ever had.

This lonely, hurting child trusted me to keep her safe and give her reassurance.

She was a witness, a fact I could not forget, and yet now I was the one who was afraid. I fear that doing my job, and solving the case, would involve making Samantha cry again and hurt inside. I felt I would be letting her down as her saviour if I were to make her re-live her pain. My thoughts and emotions had never been more jumbled. I cradled Samantha close, only because she needed it, and leaned back against the couch. She felt so fragile when she cried. So vulnerable and alone, experiencing a turmoil beyond her emotional maturity and understanding.

I was supposed to save her, and I began to doubt I could do that if I saw her as a witness instead of the sad, scared little girl she was.

* * *

><p>'Samantha?' I walked along the corridor and peered into the guest room. 'Dinner is ready.' I told her.<p>

She looked up from where she had been sitting on the bed with her staffed rabbit. She nodded once and slipped down to follow me into the kitchen. The six-year-old had not been very talkative since she'd cried herself to sleep earlier. She didn't rest for long, and only said enough to let me know she'd rather be alone for a while.

We sat at the table, where I already had it set with knives and forks. She looked hungrily at the plate of chicken and vegetables in front of her, which I had carefully portioned according to her age. I filled a glass of water and placed it in front of her before I focused on my own meal. I respected her quietness for the moment, allowing her the chance to feel comfortable and not at all pressured.

She slowly reached for her fork and began to eat.

'Thank you, Ziva.' Samantha told me after a few minutes. 'It's yummy.'

'You are very welcome, Samantha.' I smiled, trying to make her feel at ease and welcomed. 'I am glad you think so. I do love to cook.'

'Me too.' Samantha shared. 'I'm not allowed to, though.'

I didn't question her words. I wanted to know more, as it could be important, but if she thought everything she told me would be met with more questions, I believed the girl would be less willing to tell me anything useful. She was a witness, yes, but I realise now I cannot even consider questioning her until she feels safe and secure. We needed to establish more trust than we had, and I was afraid it would mean I would be required to bond with her. It was a very dangerous option, because she was not my child, and getting attached was never a good idea in any situation other than that.

'What would you like to cook?' I asked.

'Little cakes.' Samantha said. 'I want to make them pretty with coloured icing.' She seemed fond of her words, as though it was something she often dreamed about.

'That sounds fun.' I encouraged. 'Perhaps we could make some?'

'Really?' Samantha graced me with a wonderful half-smile and wide, hopeful eyes. 'I can help you make them, Ziva?'

'Of course.' I nodded. 'Perhaps we will have time to make them tomorrow.'

After I said that, I noticed an instant change in the formally distant and grieving girl. Her legs began to swing under the table, she looked more alert and aware as she enthusiastically ate the rest of her dinner, and Samantha seemed calmer than I had seen her.

Her mood remained that way as she tried to help me clear the table after we'd finished eating. With the eventful day she'd had, I decided Samantha should get some sleep early, so I sent her upstairs for a bath. I provided minimal assistance, but she insisted I stay in the room or just outside the door, as long as she could see me the entire time.

When she climbed out, I wrapped her in a soft, purple towel, and it was then she told me an outright lie.

I was not offended or annoyed, as I knew her motivations, and instead I felt concerned. She asked me to help to dress her and get into to bed, which was something I had not expected because I knew she was capable of doing those tasks on her own. I could tell she only wanted the attention and the care, which was something I felt a parent should provide.

As I helped her change into her lavender nightgown, which had a white rabbit printed on the front, I was acutely aware of the closeness she tried to achieve. She even insisted I carry her to bed, pretending she was too tired to walk there herself. When I laid her under the covers, she kept her arms looped around my neck and didn't let go. As I had suspected, her actions were purely in starving for affection. I wondered how often her parents hugged her, talked to her, and shared their time with their little girl. Her father was often deployed and away with work, so his time would be furthermore limited than her mother's. And yet, from all I have seen so far, little Samantha probably didn't know what it truly meant to have parents, and had only latched onto anything she longed for from them.

I refused to compare my situation with hers, though I knew even I had received more than she had.

I was concerned and disturbed, not only by those possible realities, but the fact Samantha had transferred all of those desires for parental affections onto me. She reached out to me like she would her mother, cuddling and asking for assistance with family routines such as cleaning up after dinner, bathing, and going to bed. How did this happen so soon? Was Samantha that desperate for parental love and security that in a mere day she turned away from the parents she had lost and latched onto her sole saviour? I was no longer worried about what happened if I became attached, when it was obvious where the true problem may reside.

'Good night, Samantha.'

I brushed my hand over her hair, as she finally released me and lay her head against the pillow. I frowned and felt the odd texture of her hair, withdrawing my hand to look at it. There was a strange substance in her strands, which left a yellowish colouring on my palm. It was hardly noticeable, but I knew it was significant somehow. Brushing her hair again, it wasn't easily detected, so I would have to ask Abby about it later as she was the forensics expert.

'Don't leave me!' Samantha yelled and grabbed my arm when I turned to leave the room. Her eyes were filled with tears as she clung to me as though I would disappear.

'You are safe here, Samantha.' I told her and tried to coax her back into bed, but she would not listen. The child gripped my arm with surprising strength for her age and babbled things I could not understand.

She was absolutely terrified.

Seeing no other choice, an hour later I was lying in my own bed and trying to sleep. Beside me, Samantha's breathing indicated she had finally settled enough to close her eyes and give in to her exhaustion. It had been a long day, more so for her than myself, but I was the one who could not sleep. There was a painful, internal battle taking place in my mind. A clash of what needs to be done to solve the case, and what was right for the six-year-old little girl.

I was her saviour and somehow I knew Samantha still needed saving.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: Please review, I would really love to hear your thoughts!<strong>


	3. Too Many Possibilities

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to my reviewers for their comments! I wrote this chapter in a different POV because I wanted to cover certain case information and other perceptions that I do not think Ziva would have been able to obtain or take notice at this point. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>I arrived at NCIS just before sunrise.<p>

Ah, _Before Sunrise_. The 1995 movie starring Ethan Hawke, Julie Delpy and Andrea Eckert – two people end up sharing a train ride and spent a romantic night in Vienna, knowing it's probably their only night together...I don't usually watch silent films, but that one was an exception. Anyway, I got to work before everyone else, even Gibbs. It was weird, walking into the bullpen and dropping my bag beside my desk, then looking around to see no one.

It was almost peaceful, really, if the recent case hadn't been heavily on my mind.

I'd come into NCIS alone before, usually around midnight to finish some paperwork without distractions or interruptions, but that's not why I was early today. Back in Baltimore, I'd worked hundreds of cases where kids were involved, though usually on a smaller scale like locking themselves in a car by accident or the average vandalism and graffiti, but at NCIS things were almost always on a bigger scale. There's been missing kids, even hurt kids, but Samantha Miles...I dunno, this case got to me more than most.

Maybe it was the way Ziva was with her.

It was hard to miss the protective stare in those usually steely eyes of the former Mossad assassin as she watched the girl, and the way she never strayed far from Samantha. It was understandable, given the circumstances of Ziva being the girl's hero and all. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on with those two, especially with the way Ziva reacted when she saw the dancing shoes. Ziva used to dance, I remember her telling me once.

And when she'd walked out of the bullpen holding Samantha's hand yesterday afternoon, I could see Gibbs was worried.

I booted up my computer and leaned back in the chair while the screen came on. Exhaling, I gave the room another long glance, half-expecting Gibbs to come striding in with a coffee cup in his hand and a devil-may-care expression on his face. He was always harder to live with when kids were involved.

I have a theory.

Not about the case, though that would probably be more helpful, but about people. I always thought each person was really two or three. Not in a multiple personality kind of way - that makes no sense, so let me explain. Gibbs, he's two people for sure. He's a marine and a father. Often those two sides work together or they'd clash. Right now, I think he's a worried and protective father, but when we get a suspect to confront, then he'll be the scary marine who can make a feared gang leader cry for his mother.

Abby, she's one person. One unique and enthusiastic person, but she never needs another side to herself because she's complete just as she is. Abby doesn't need to defend a part of herself or use another side to make herself stronger. She says what she means and does what she believes in or thinks is right. That's Abby. It's who she is, and it's who McGee is too. In a different way, of course, as McGee doesn't always say what he means, but he's one person too. Ducky I'd say is two, similar to Gibbs, but not as extreme. Palmer is two, I think, though maybe three.

Me?

Well, I'd like to think I'm three or four.

There's the me who lives and breathes films, like my mother had encouraged and which developed into a sort of way to cope after she'd died. Then there's the me who's a womaniser and enjoys the simpler pleasures in life. And the real me – the one who strives for justice and wants something permanent in life, with family and personal achievement. The real me wants a life that matters, filled with people who matter. And the fourth me? Well, that part of me jokes around and its his mission to protect the real me.

It's complicated.

What's most complicated of all is Ziva. She's at least five, probably more. Crazy ninja chick, assassin, spy, and NCIS Agent - they're all obvious and make it easier to overlook the others. The creative Ziva who likes to cook, dance, and sing. The sister. The best friend. And there's the real Ziva amongst all of those. I would bet a thousand dollars that there are only a few people alive in the world who have seen the real Ziva. I've had glimpses, though small ones, but I know she's there.

The woman who led Samantha by the hand from the office yesterday, that was the real Ziva.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the ringing of my desk phone. I sat there, staring at the black object, and wondered who would be calling me at work just as the light of the sunrise was streaming into the bullpen.

'DiNozzo.' I answered.

'Tony.' It was Ziva. 'Is Gibbs in yet?'

'I haven't seen him.' I rolled my eyes.

I should have known it would be her, because who else got up at ungodly hours of the day and sounded so awake?

'Something wrong? How did you even know I was here?'

'Lucky guess.' She answered quickly, which I knew had to be a lie. Though it was hard to tell with Ziva when I couldn't see her eyes. 'Tell Gibbs to call me when he comes in.'

'You didn't answer my question, is something wrong?' I frowned, wondering why she couldn't just call Gibbs herself.

'No.' Ziva said shortly. 'She is sleeping.'

She hung up on me.

I stared at the receiver in my hand for a moment, then slowly put it back into its place. I stretched back against my chair, with my hands behind my head, and stared across the bullpen. I hadn't asked about Samantha specifically, only regarding the situation, yet Ziva's mind had gone straight to the girl.

That was not a good sign.

* * *

><p>It was almost eight in the morning when I was able to deliver the message to Gibbs. He gave me a look when I said it, and dialled Ziva's number. McGee was typing away at his computer doing McGee things, and I was scanning over the backgrounds on our two murder victims. Samantha's parents.<p>

At least, that's what I made it look like I was doing, whereas I thought of _Message in a Bottle_. You know, the 1999 film with Kevin Costner? I don't know why, but that's what came to mind when I thought about Ziva's message. It seemed simple enough, though Gibbs did not look happy when he hung up the phone. I checked his expression when he sipped the last of his coffee, and knew he wouldn't appreciate my movie references right now. He stared at the empty cup for a moment, thinking deeply, and I only hoped it wouldn't result in a head-slap.

Why was it always me, even when I don't think I did enough to deserve it?

'DiNozzo!' Gibbs barked as though I was going deaf. 'Put up Samantha's daily schedule.'

'Sure, Boss.' I answered dutifully and straightened in my chair.

I tapped at the keyboard and looked towards the plasma screen when the timetable was viewable there. Gibbs stood in front of it and stared at the arrangement with the same expression he wore when he tried to follow Abby or McGee's geek-speak.

'What did Ziva have to say?' I asked him as I stood and joined his side.

I glanced at the schedule again and tried to work out what Gibbs was searching for that could help us with the case.

'She thinks either Samantha was an intended victim who wasn't found, or she was left alive for a reason.' Gibbs shared, which wasn't something he did often, so it caught me a little off-guard.

McGee seemed to think it was weird too, as he quickly joined us and abandoned whatever he'd been at his computer.

'What do you think?' I prompted Gibbs.

'I think she's right.' He sighed in a tired, stressed "I'm about to shoot someone" kind of way. 'Tell me about our victims.'

That was the cue McGee and I were waiting for. And, as usual, it became somewhat of a batting match between us as we both reported what we knew.

'Sergeant Gordon Miles got home from a training assignment a few weeks ago.' I answered first and pressed the button on the clickety-thing to show the service photo of our dead guy on the screen. 'Over the last five years he'd worked on a few classified Ops run by the Marine Corps. His CO said the participation was minimal, and doesn't think it was anything big enough to get him killed over.' I shrugged, knowing it wasn't a good idea to just take the man's word for it or to assume.

Gibbs made sure of it, with a few slaps to the head so I would never forget.

'According to his phone records,' McGee jumped in when I paused. 'Sergeant Miles was in contact with a former marine he'd worked with, Gavin Porter.' He accepted the clickety I passed to him. He pressed the button to show the service record of the man he was talking about. 'Apparently Sergeant Miles singled him out and was constantly keeping him in line. It drove Jacobs crazy.'

'Crazy, like literally or figuratively?' I wondered.

There was a big difference between the two, and at NCIS we've seen both scenarios a number of times in the past.

'Not literally, I don't think.' McGee frowned, and a glare from Gibbs motivated him to continue. 'Sergeant Miles also received multiple calls from a former partner, Karl Bradley.' Another click and we were looking at a third service photo. I was starting to think all marines looked the same, with the haircuts and uniforms. 'They were irregular and only lasted a couple of minutes each time.' McGee sighed and brought up another picture.

'The most common calls came from a former superior, Morgan Jones.' He said. 'I checked, and it looks like he was in regular contact with Sergeant Miles for years, though it was reported they never really got along.' McGee raised his eyebrows, which I noticed he does when he thought something was useful to the case and interesting.

'Then there's Stacy Miles.' I snatched the clickety from McGee. 'I mean, obviously she's not a suspect, since she's dead too. I meant her co-worker, Cindy Staller.' I reported, looking at the pretty blonde woman on the screen. She was nice; not gorgeous, but nice. Judging by the fullness of her lips, I'd say she's a damn good kisser too. Maybe. She has a devious look in her eyes, though.

'DiNozzo.' Gibbs warned.

'Right.' I blinked and shook those thoughts from my mind. I looked down at the papers in my hands and tried to work out what I was talking about. 'Uh, Cindy worked with Stacy Miles at the company, Steele Insurance. Their boss said Cindy had been her main competition for a promotion, guess who won.' I smirked, knowing it was Stacy.

'I thought Stacy Miles didn't work?' McGee asked.

'Apparently she doesn't, not since seven years ago.' I answered. 'She does a few things from home still, like taking calls and checking accounts. Her boss said she was one of the best. I dunno, it's a bunch of numbers and a lot of off-the-books stuff to maintain her steady income. It's not a lot, but she was doing well. Do you think we should check Cindy out, Boss?'

'No.' Gibbs said calmly, which actually meant he was being tolerant rather than calm. 'The killer probably doesn't know where Samantha is. Until we know otherwise, we're going to assume Samantha was also an intended target. Ducky thinks it was planned, so the killer had to have known Samantha would be home.'

'Yeah.' I agreed reluctantly. 'She's not home much.' I brought up the schedule again. 'I mean, my father was loaded and the most I got was after-school sports and piano lessons. The Miles' didn't have a lot of money, but they gave Samantha everything they could.'

'Everything except a moment of their time.' Gibbs said in a low voice. It was a dangerous voice, especially when he was armed – which I checked to make sure he wasn't.

'You think there was trouble in paradise?' I asked.

It was an impossible task to work out how the mind of Leroy Jethro Gibbs worked, but I always tried anyway.

'I think Ziva's right.' Gibbs said cryptically, as usual. 'This is about more than a promotion or general dispute. Samantha is the key. We're going to trace every step that little girl took every single day. Someone has to know her routine!' He said firmly. 'They'd had to be watching for while, and we need to know if they still are.'

'And if they try to finish the job?' I thought it sounded risky, and it wasn't usually Gibbs' style when a kid was involved.

'Then you better hope you're paying attention, DiNozzo.' Gibbs turned his attention to me, his face close to mine in that intimidating marine way. He used his own way of telling me I was going along with Ziva and Samantha to retrace the events of the schedule.

'So you can shoot the bastard!' Gibbs added with a growl and strode out of the office.

McGee watched him leave, then returned to his computer.

I remained where I stood, staring at the schedule on the screen and wondered when Stacy or Gordon ever got to see their child. I knew the task was risky, and there was no doubt that Ziva was going to be there as well, but looking at the schedule made me uncomfortable. Samantha Miles had so much going on for a six-year-old girl, and it didn't look like there'd been time for anything else in her life, like just being a kid.

There were only three main gaps in the timeline, where Samantha would be at home during the day. Yesterday morning had been one of them. Gibbs and Ziva were right, as they often were, and someone else definitely knew the routine better than the girl's own parents.

* * *

><p>Ziva brought Samantha to the bullpen around nine, which was pre-arranged by Gibbs.<p>

I escorted them back outside a short time later.

Ziva was quieter than usual, whereas the little girl never said a word until we were all in the car. She sat in the back-seat while I started the engine and Ziva stared out the passenger side window.

'Where are we going?' Samantha asked.

Ziva and I looked at each other, and neither of us knew what to say. How could we explain to Samantha that she was essentially bait? She was going about her usual daily routine, which would give us a chance to observe any suspicious attention she received from any of the instructors, supervisors, or otherwise.

'It would be a shame to miss your lessons.' Ziva said to her.

I was glad she was the one to answer Samantha instead of me. I tuned out of the conversation after we'd left the Navy Yard and tried to work out where the dance studio was. I'd been in Washington DC for years, but it wasn't as though I was familiar with where to go because it was a recreational theatre center for little kids. It wasn't anything serious, business-wise, since there were no visits from talent scouts, model agencies, or things like that. At least, not from what Ziva had told me.

I had no idea about this kind of stuff.

'We're here.' I pointed out the obvious and left the car.

I walked to the building and did my best to blend in, which was not an easy thing for me to do when one considered where we were. Ziva, however, held Samantha's hand and walked inside as though she may as well own the place.

She still amazes me sometimes.

'This way.' Ziva turned right and led us up a flight of stairs.

We entered a practise room, which had polished wooden floors and a wall with a huge mirror. I saw a beam in front of the mirror, so I could take a guess at what sort of dancing Samantha learned.

I walked towards a small group of parents standing on the right side of the room. I saw four proud-looking mothers and one couple who looked bored to death already. I wish I'd asked Ziva how long these lessons were supposed to go for, even if I dreaded the answer.

'Hi.' I said perhaps a bit too enthusiastically when the mothers each gave me a rather odd expression. I was only trying to be friendly while I kept an eye on each of them for anything that might be considered out of place or suspicious.

'Who are you?' One mother asked me rather rudely.

Honestly, I could see her point. A guy like me, who's not wearing a wedding ring or with a kid at my side, just walks into their little girl's dance room? Yeah, I'd be asking questions too.

'I'm with them.' I pointed to Ziva, who had just left the nearby changing room with Samantha.

I waited for the parents to recognise the child, and they did, but no one seemed to be very interested in her. Right away, I knew this visit was probably going to be a waste of time, since they seemed to view Samantha as just another one of the kids who happened to share the lesson with their daughter.

I doubted they even knew her name.

'You're going to watch me dance?' Samantha asked Ziva as they both seemed to ignore me entirely.

'Yes.' Ziva smiled and brushed some hair from the girl's face.

I observed their interactions with interest, though I tried not to be too obvious about it. Samantha was dressed in a pink outfit and a tutu to match, as well as the same shoes I'd seen Ziva admiring from the bag yesterday. I felt a bit awkward standing there, thinking how Samantha and Ziva exchanged words and expressions with ease, whereas I probably looked as uncomfortable as I felt.

'Line up, girls!' A woman walked into the room and took control of the class with only her tone and stare.

She was the instructor, obviously, and looked like she knew her stuff, but was rather stern with her teaching methods. I wasn't one of those people who thought dancing was just about grace and balance. No, it should be considered an Olympic sport with how brutal it can get. In Baltimore, I put away a woman who had killed her best friend with the heel of a shoe, just to get the leading spotlight in a performance because there was a slight chance a talent scout might be in the audience.

'Go on.' Ziva encouraged. 'We will be here the entire time.'

'Okay.' Samantha nodded.

She hurried across the floor to join her class and was easily one of the smaller girls there. The eldest was about eight or nine.

'You're not her mother.' The only other man in the room, other than myself, pointed out to Ziva.

We turned to look at him, while his bored wife muttered something about going for a cigarette and left.

'Excuse me?' Ziva frowned at him. 'And who are you?'

'James.' He answered without giving us a last name. 'I've see her mother once before, and you're not her.'

'Who I am is none of your business.' Ziva did not state she was not Samantha's mother, though Gibbs had ordered us not to reveal what we felt shouldn't be said.

Personally, I'd have told James I was a guardian or standing in for a parent, but Ziva didn't. It concerned me, because she seemed to be rather attached to the girl already and I hoped it wouldn't escalate.

'You've met Stacy?' I asked him. 'When?'

'A year ago.' James shrugged. 'She only came in once, when the girl started here.'

'You met her once, a year ago, and you just happen to remember her?' Ziva scoffed.

'Hard to forget.' He frowned back, clearly not liking the attitude he was getting. 'She went crazy at Angela.' James indicated to the instructor, who was tapping Samantha's leg with a thin rod to indicate a posture she needed to correct. 'They argued for a while and caused a scene. Then she left and we never saw her again. The girl kept coming in twice a week, though.'

'Do you know what they argued about?' I asked.

'No.' James crossed his arms. 'Like I said, it was a year ago.'

I judged the interest of the other mothers nearby, but they only had eyes for their own daughters who were practising in front of the mirror. I wanted to talk to Angela, but knew it would be too suspicious if we didn't wait until the class was over.

And it was a boring wait.

I leaned against the wall for most of it, trying to stay awake and fight the urge to play Tetris on my phone. James actually did fall asleep, slouched in the corner of the room while his wife read a book beside him. I don't know why they bothered to stay if it was clearly dull for them, and I don't remember seeing them look at their child amongst the twenty or so girls.

I whispered this to Ziva, but I shut up quickly when she gave me a reply.

'At least they came.'

I remembered Ziva once saying how she'd spent a lot of her childhood on stage, searching for her father's face in the crowd, but he was never there. Not even when he'd promised to be there for her. I supposed she was right, because even if the parents were bored, at least they came to endure it for their child. If I wasn't working, I guess I might have done the same if I had a kid. I'd be playing Tetris during that time, of course, though at the moment I was supposed to be keeping an eye on Samantha to make sure no one hurt her.

The situation was very different, but I suppose the sentiment was the same.

Yawning, I wasn't sure I could take much more of the boredom, until I noticed Angela was once again circling Samantha. I hadn't paid much attention to the actual dancing part of the lesson, and Ziva seemed to have that aspect covered, so mostly I'd watched the parents for any reactions or signs. Until then, all I'd learned from the entire event was how much I hoped I'd end up with a son instead of a daughter.

'Stand up straight!' Angela was getting frustrated with Samantha, even if she six-year-old seemed to be trying.

I didn't think much of it at first, since the girl had been through a lot recently and might not be concentrating as much, except it happened multiple times. Either Samantha wasn't paying much attention, or Angela had purposefully singled her out.

Ziva, with her vulture gaze on the instructing woman, had clearly noticed it as well.

And finally, I was saved, as the lesson ended. It had lasted an hour, but the time had felt like the longest hour I had ever lived through.

The other girls either headed to the change room or their waiting parents. The bored couple instantly greeted their daughter and praised her, so my opinions of them increased a little. Ziva was right; at least they'd stayed to support their child even if the lesson itself bored them.

Samantha was the only girl left by the mirror. She'd sat down on the smooth floor when the lesson had finished, and stared sadly at her shoes. Angela stood over her with a scowl on her face. In a flash of movement, Ziva was at their sides while I hurried to keep up.

That Mossad chick was too fast sometimes.

'Is there a problem?' Ziva asked the woman with obvious, controlled distrust.

'Who are you?' Angela retorted. 'I haven't see you before. You're not Samantha's mother.'

'You seem to be particularly hard on her.' Ziva commented. 'Why is that?'

'She needs to learn to listen properly.' The woman frowned. 'Her mother insists this girl is to be in my class. I would have kept her in the beginner's class where she belongs. This is for dancers who actually want to dance.' She said bitterly and didn't care that the little girl was sitting on the floor in front of her, overhearing everything she said.

'And why did she insist?' I questioned, glancing sideways at Ziva. I hoped she wasn't about to go crazy on us and take out the woman. I knew the glare on her face, and very few have escaped it without some sort of consequence.

'It's not mandatory for a parent to be present during my lessons.' Angela said bluntly. 'Mrs Miles preferred it that way.'

'Is that what the argument was about a year ago?' I asked for clarification.

'Yes.' Angela nodded hesitantly. 'Now who are you?'

'It does not matter.' Ziva answered. 'We are taking care of Samantha for now. Did you ever meet Mr Miles?'

'No.' Angela said. 'I only see his name on the checks.'

'Checks?' I wanted to know. Money was always a good motivation for anything crime-related, which I knew from experience.

'They come every Friday.' Angela gave the information easily, looking us over as though she knew the information was necessary without seeing our badges or knowing who we are.

I wish all interviews went this well.

'The tuition money goes to the studio, but he pays me extra to keep Samantha in my class. I once danced on Broadway in Paris, so my dancers know style and coordination under my teaching. Both which Samantha does not have. The extra money was all I would accept to keep her in my class, and it's perfectly legal.'

'Did you get the check last Friday?' I wrote down some notes while Ziva crouched towards the little girl sitting on the floor beside us.

'Yes.' Angela frowned. 'Why?'

'They'll probably stop now.' I told her, but didn't give a reason. Gibbs was very strict when he'd told us not to tell anyone what had happened.

Angela didn't look overly happy, but still seemed relieved in assuming the girl wasn't going to be taking her lessons anymore. From what I'd noticed, apparently Samantha just wasn't a very good dancer.

I said nothing, however, as Ziva led her back to the changing room.

I headed to the door and waited, thinking how wrong I'd been about Samantha's parents, who didn't seem to want to give their daughter everything, after all. Or maybe they'd been like my own father and thought money bought a child everything?

* * *

><p>It was just after eleven when we got to the school where the rest of the daily events took place.<p>

According to the schedule composed by Stacy Miles, Samantha was dropped off to attend a crafting activity, then went to the music room for violin practise, and afterwards headed to the field outside for soccer training. Her parents hadn't been there for any of it, providing the girl only with a sandwich to eat if she got hungry and a bottle of water. After her soccer, Samantha was due in town for martial arts sessions, which would last longer than the other events, and then headed home.

'This is ridiculous.' Ziva ranted in low tones as we headed for the crafts room. 'It is too much for six-year-old child to do in one day!' There was an underlining sentence I knew she wanted to say, but wasn't going to with Samantha walking between us and holding her hand.

I was thinking it as well, because it was a lot of effort for a mother to go through so she only saw her child when it was absolutely necessary.

Stacy drove Samantha around each day and dropped her off at one place or another. Meanwhile, Gordon paid the teachers money to keep her there or not to complain when Samantha wasn't doing very well, whereas the other children advanced along with time and practise. It was clear Samantha wasn't happy and that was probably why she didn't do so well, especially with so much to do in a single day. She may be six, but Samantha wasn't stupid. I don't know how she coped for the two years she'd been doing this, without going insane trying to keep up with everything. Really, all I think she wanted was some time with her mother and father.

I could relate to her in that way.

The instructor teaching the children how to make masks, friendship bracelets, and clay models barely gave us any notice when we sat at a too-small table with Samantha. A lot of other parents were there, with children aged from five through to ten.

'That is very pretty, Samantha.' Ziva praised the wonky-shaped thing the girl made of clay. I spent most of the hour trying to work out what it was, until Ziva hissed it was a star.

I rejected the crafting lady's offer for me to make something as well, and was glad when the lesson was finally over. This had already been a really dull day for me and at this point I thought it was a complete waste of time.

Next we headed down the hallway to a room nearby, where we met Mark the music teacher. He watched Samantha with dread as the little girl headed onto the stage with the other kids and sat in front of the violin. He too didn't care much for our presence.

With the way Mark kept an eye on Samantha and a seven-year-old chubby boy who played a trumpet, I expected her to lacking in talent or skill for music as the situation was similar to the dance studio. However, Samantha turned out to be rather decent at playing the violin, for a six-year-old.

Even so, I was glad to have a chair to sit on while the off-key music numbed my ears for an hour. Ziva didn't look bothered by it all and I envied her for it.

We'd talked to the craft lady and then Mark the music man, but since Angela from the dance studio, there was no reason for concern or interest case-wise.

Though, even I had to admit that letting a six-year-old make her way around the school alone on a weekend, and then outside to the sports field, was reckless. If she'd been my kid, I'd have given her two armed bodyguards. Actually, no, I'd be her dad and be there for her, not at home doing whatever Stacy did when she was avoiding the company of her only child.

'I am glad they are dead.' Ziva said to me as she watched Samantha running around after the wayward soccer ball. 'Otherwise, I would have shot them myself.'

She was angry, which I could relate to because Samantha seemed like a good kid who didn't deserve to be ignored by her own parents, but something in Ziva's eyes showed it was more than that.

'Maybe something was going on at the house she didn't want Samantha to be there for.' I shrugged and slid sunglasses over my eyes. It was a theory I'd been considering all day, but Ziva did not appear to listen.

I was beginning to wonder what was more important to her in regards to the case.

* * *

><p>After a day I would rather have avoided, finally we were going somewhere interesting. We took Samantha to lunch, then headed for the final location listed on the most insane schedule created for a six-year-old.<p>

It was the only event Samantha actually looked forward to.

We arrived at the building around two in the afternoon, and knew we would be there until almost five. It caught my attention instantly because I noticed it was the most publicly accessible location we had seen all day, as it was a rented store space in the middle of a main street. We passed a crowd of shoppers, workers from officers or nearby constructions, and mischievous teenagers.

And once we stepped inside, I instantly recognised someone from this morning in the bullpen when we'd been going over the four main suspects in front of the plasma screen.

'Cindy Staller.' I whispered quickly to Ziva. 'She worked with Stacy Miles. They battled for a promotion and Cindy lost. I'm guessing she won now that Stacy's out of the picture.'

'Stacy didn't work.' Ziva frowned.

'It's off the books.' I shrugged, since I didn't really understand it either.

Samantha hurried towards the group of kids waiting for the lesson to start, while Ziva and I went to sit in the chairs provided by one side of the room. Ziva kept her gaze trained on Cindy, while many other parents joined us at the benches. Samantha was doing stretches with two other girls her age and was far more relaxed than usual, compared to the other places we'd endured today.

Cindy never joined the parents. Instead, she kept to herself near the door and talked on her phone a lot, watching a boy who looked to be about seven. I assumed it was her son, Benjamin.

Hardly ten minutes into the lesson, Ziva stood and marched towards Cindy. I was tempted to follow her, but didn't want to draw too much attention to ourselves. The women talked and Ziva didn't look happy. I was nervous because Ziva was unpredictable (more than usual) when Samantha was involved. I didn't know if she was going to glare at someone she thought might be involved, or full-on attack the person until they needed a paramedic.

I knew she could handle Cindy either way, so I kept an eye on Samantha, since we were supposed to be protecting her. And it looked like the girl had finally found something she was good at. Samantha looked like a mini-Ziva out there, kicking and moving with practised ease and effectiveness. None of the other kids stood a chance against her, to the point that the Japanese instructor was constantly praising her.

Samantha showed her keen concentration that Angela at the dance studio didn't see, the grace and creativity the craft lady never noticed, the skill Mark the music man never knew of, and the strength her soccer coach wouldn't believe. During her martial arts lessons, Samantha could be herself and she was very good at it.

'I do not like that woman.' Ziva told me when she finally sat to my left half an hour later.

'Did she do it?' I asked casually, though I doubted it because Cindy was still breathing.

'I do not believe so.' Ziva frowned. 'She is too stupid.' She looked over to observe the scene and smiled. 'Samantha is really good.'

'Yeah.' I nodded. 'She reminds me of you, actually. I bet you were like that at her age.'

Ziva didn't answer me, but when I glanced sideways at her, I saw there was a sly smile on her face.

* * *

><p>When we finally got back to NCIS around six, I could not be happier as I headed to my desk and collapsed into the chair. Exhaling loudly, I closed my eyes and wished the day had never happened.<p>

Yawning, I looked across the bullpen and felt sympathetic for Samantha. She sat in Ziva's chair, while the Mossad woman herself headed to MTAC where McGee said Gibbs were. The girl just sat there, staring at the desk in front of her. I hesitated for a moment, then crossed the room to sit on the edge of the desk. She looked up at me, which was the first time our eyes had actually met, and I saw the innocent blueness of her focused gaze. She was a sweet kid, and never complained or gave us any trouble.

'Are you okay?' I asked her.

Samantha nodded her head in reply, though her eyes said otherwise. She didn't look away, and before I could comment on her lack of chatter, she spoke to me.

'Thank you.'

'For what?' I wondered, confused, and tried to work out what I could have done to earn her gratitude.

I never received an answer, as Ziva returned and basically shoo'ed me from her desk.

'We are going to see a friend of mine.' Ziva said and held her hand to the girl, who accepted it willingly. 'Her name is Abby.'

I watched her leave and knew Gibbs had rejoined us. When the elevator closed, he gave me one of his marine stares he usually reserved for when I was in trouble. I didn't have to ask what I'd done, as I knew it wasn't what the stare was about this time. I remembered the first year I'd spent with Gibbs and how hard it had been to adapt, but now I knew what signs to look for and could interpret them accordingly.

Well, most of the time.

'You were right, boss.' I said, even if Gibbs never commented on what I was confirming. 'Ziva's getting attached. Samantha too.'

'How can you tell?' McGee wondered obliviously.

'There were a lot of comments that Ziva wasn't Samantha's mother. She never denied it, or made an excuse. Samantha latched onto her any chance she got. I'm surprised Ziva didn't shoot Cindy when we saw her at the martial arts place.' I looked to Gibbs with a serious expression, trying to show confidence in what I was saying. 'There was nothing out of the ordinary. Sure, we saw one of the suspects there, but mostly people ignored us and Samantha. I don't think the killer was a parent or an instructor.'

'Unless Cindy got the schedule off Stacy's computer.' McGee added. 'They often shared a hard-drive.'

'She can't have been too guilty.' I remarked. 'Ziva let her live.'

'We're missing something.' Gibbs said in the same tired way he had that morning. 'Find it!' He snapped and marched out of the room.

'Find what?' McGee frowned to me.

'I don't know.' I was grumpy, having followed a little kid around all day to boring events where I endured hours of nothing. 'Let me know when you figure it out.'

I sat at my desk and stared at the schedule on my computer screen, trying to work out why there were three gaps on it. If Stacy Miles didn't want to see her child until she had to, then why were there several hours on three days where Samantha was at home where she belonged? And who else could have known?

Gibbs knew we were missing something, that much was obvious, but what?

Sighing, I leaned back in my chair and stared upwards, letting my mind wander. I was curious as to why Ziva was taking Samantha to see Abby, but I wasn't sure how much I cared.

Today had numbed my brain, I'm convinced of it.

There were probably things I should be doing to help the case, but until Gibbs told me to do something, I was taking a break. It had been a long day and I was moody. I listed categories in my head to occupy the time, such as my favourite action films or the best lines said in a particular film. As I moved on to amuse myself of picking which movies my co-workers would be the main lead in, Ziva came back to the bullpen. Samantha was with her, but not for long.

'DiNozzo, with me.' Gibbs said.

'Where are we going, Boss?' I asked and stood up, retrieving my gun from the draw in my desk.

'Samantha's had a long day. We're taking to a park to play.' He said in a weird voice, one that meant he was saying it more for Samantha's benefit than ours. And it was clearly an attempt to give her a nicer surrounding as we talked to her. I could see what he was up to, as Samantha was our key witness in the case, and unfortunately Ziva knew that as well.

'Gibbs!' She objected to the clear lack of invitation.

'Stay.' Gibbs told her firmly, setting a glare on his face to let her know it was an order she could not negotiate with.

'Ziva.' Samantha grasped a handhold of Ziva's jacket and didn't like the idea of parting from her hero. She was reassured and encouraged when Ziva crouched towards the child and promised she was going to be okay.

Once the girl was convinced enough that everything was okay and she would enjoy playing at the park, she very reluctantly walked to my side.

It was strange to have a kid choose me over Gibbs, since he was the one kids seemed to trust, but I could understand why Samantha sought me out. I'd been following her around all day, whereas she'd only glimpsed at Gibbs a few times before. It didn't make me feel any less awkward, however, when she grabbed my hand and allowed me to lead her behind Gibbs and into the elevator.

* * *

><p>It was a nice day outside, which I'd noticed while Samantha had been played soccer earlier.<p>

Gibbs picked a park with green grass, a basic playground, and almost no company. I chuckled to myself at the thought of Gibbs knowing which parks to avoid and how far away the best ones were from the Navy Yard. I guessed he'd spent most of the day working out which one would be suitable for our non-interrogation, and had likely consulted some of the agents at NCIS who were parents and therefore likely used this park as well.

We let Samantha play for a while, then Gibbs called her over to the wooden bench and sat beside her. I stood nearby, looking around the area as a precaution.

'Samantha, I thought we should talk.' Gibbs said in his more fatherly voice, rather than the marine/boss one he often used. 'We're looking for the person who hurt your mum and dad.' He said, being as sympathetic as he could despite the topic of discussion. 'Can you help us?'

Samantha looked at the ground below her feet, which were swinging over it because she wasn't tall enough to reach the grass with her shoes. She was unhappy by the reminder of her parents deaths, yet her posture was more sad than reluctant and it was probably what encouraged Gibbs to continue.

'You could hear your mum and dad's voices?' He asked, starting it slow and easing her into the questions. When Samantha nodded her head, Gibbs proceeded. 'Did you hear anyone else?'

Another nod.

'Have you heard the voice before?'

Samantha didn't react. No head nodding or shaking, and no words. Gibbs glanced at me and I could tell he assumed what I did: it was someone Samantha had at least heard before. That meant whoever had killed them, the girl knew him or her, or met them at some point in the past.

Gibbs asked a few more questions, but Samantha wasn't giving us anything. She tried to ignore Gibbs, and had lifted her legs onto the seat so she could wrap her arms around her knees.

She was scared and defensive.

We had a living witness to a murder case, and yet there was barely anything we could get from her. I know she's just a kid, but her life was in danger until we caught whoever killed her parents. If Gibbs couldn't get answers, I doubt anyone else could. Except maybe Ziva, though I am sure she was compromising our case by trying to protect the girl further. Her pretesting to us talking to Samantha, without being there herself, was telling enough.

When Gibbs' phone rang, he sighed and walked away to answer it. I watched him for a moment and thought about what we knew of Samantha's life. Her parents hadn't really been there, though they gave the impression of caring enough for her. She wasn't abused or mistreated, just not given the attention she deserved. With that in mind, I checked Gibbs was busy before I moved and sat beside the girl. I removed the sunglasses from my face and looked down at Samantha. She hesitantly stared back at me.

It was a risk, and a long shot, as I was working on pure guesswork, but I had to give it a try.

'People make promises a lot, don't they?' I asked, looking across the park as though it was a casual statement rather than a question to engage her in conversation. 'After my mum died, my dad made a lot of promises he couldn't keep. He promised to take me fishing one Christmas, but he didn't.' I tried to form a commonality with Samantha, though nothing I said was a lie.

'Did your mum or dad make any promises like that?'

'Yes.' Samantha spoke very softly. 'My mother promised to help me dance better, but she was always busy.'

'Yeah, I hear you.' I sighed. 'My dad was like that too. There was always a reason. An excuse. I know my dad loves me, but sometimes I forget because he was never around much.' I glanced at Samantha, who watched me with rapt attention. 'When someone keeps breaking promises like that, it's hard to believe new ones, right?' I asked, and she nodded.

'So when Ziva promised you're safe now, did you believe her?'

Samantha looked away with an expression of guilt on her face. She dropped her knees and avoided my gaze, which I still took as a good sign in regards to where I was heading with the conversation.

'Parents break promises sometimes, sure, but NCIS Special Agents don't. If Ziva promised you're safe, then you are.' I told her. 'See Agent Gibbs over there? The bad guys are scared of him. He doesn't let innocent people get hurt. He teaches us to never break a promise, no matter what. You can trust us, Samantha. I know you're scared, but if you help us find who hurt your parents, we promise you'll be safe.'

She looked at me again. Her eyes were wide and hesitant, but she seemed to be thinking about what I said as she watched Gibbs listen to whoever was talking to him on the phone. I hadn't expected Samantha to shift along the seat until she was right beside me. She stared at me in a way I had seen her stare at Ziva, waiting and watching for a reaction or confirmation of trust.

I looked back at her, hoping to encourage her to trust me and tell us something, anything, that could help us find whoever wanted to hurt her.

'He was mad at father.' She finally whispered. 'He wanted something, but didn't get it. He yelled a lot until...' Samantha resolved to tears and buried her face against my arm.

I tried my best not to cringe, and was relieved she had told us a bit more information. It wasn't much, but at least it gave us a place to start.

Gibbs joined us a minute or so later. He indicated we were leaving, but Samantha wouldn't get off the seat until I extended my hand for her to hold. I blamed Ziva blame for the hand-holding safety reassurance. I led her back to the car and watched as Gibbs told her to stay there for a moment, then shut the door.

'Boss?' I asked, thinking whoever had been on the phone told him something important to the case that he didn't want Samantha to overhear.

'Abby called.' He said. 'About the bloody band-aide collected from the crime scene; Abby was checking everything so she tested it.' He reported, which I thought just sounded like Abby was being thorough as always.

I remembered the item, and it had been a flowery little-girl kind of band aide so it could only have belonged to Samantha. Ziva confirmed earlier that the girl had a small cut on her elbow and the marks from a band-aide covering it.

'Samantha's blood type doesn't match the parents.' Gibbs continued. 'Abby did a DNA test anyway, and Samantha Miles is not their biological daughter.'

'She was adopted?' I was surprised as I looked through the car window at the sleepy child, who stared back at me with uncertainty.

'There's no evidence they'd ever adopted a child.' Gibbs added in a bothered tone.

He got into the driver's side of the car and I moved around it to occupy the passenger seat, thinking of how complicated the case was becoming right when Samantha finally decided to trust us long enough to give us a few small details.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: Hopefully most chapters will not be at least around this length. Thanks for reading. Please review and share your comments or thoughts as I find them to be very useful and motivating.<strong>


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